


Heavy Is My Crown of Sapphire

by A_Sirens_Lullaby (orphan_account)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, Frerin Lives!AU, Frerins alive and kicking, Ignoring Canon, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Screwing with the Timeline, Sibling Incest, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 20:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1870506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/A_Sirens_Lullaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frerin didn't die in the Battle of Azanulbizar. He is alive and whole and, much to Thorins annoyance, as twice as reckless as his nephews on a good day. Yet when Thorin proposes a quest to reclaim their homeland Frerin can't help but be hesitant. After all, Erebor offers nothing more than greed and madness and a lifetime of regrets haunting it. Still, he is an heir of Durin and his peoples Golden Prince. He only hopes he still has a family left when its all said and done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So first multi-chapter fix I've worked on so hopefully this goes smoothly! Updates will be slow and sporadic, but I'm determined to finish this fic so hopefully the updates wont be to far apart from each other.

    There are many things that are better left unsung of battles both won and lost. Fallen kings and maddening princes and the grief filled screams of those left behind are better left to the bitter memories left in the wake of a victory no more hollow than the heart of the Elvenking himself. Frerin remembers better than most the cost of his grandfather’s madness, the blood spilled and loved ones lost all in the name of pride and power. He remembers the crazed look that had appeared in his father’s eyes the moment Thrors head was raised above the battlefield as a trophy by the Defiler, and the heartbreaking scream that had ripped from his throat seconds later. He remembers the broken look on Thorins face as his brother tried to stop the blood rushing out of the wound he doesn’t even remember receiving, and the pleas to just _keep breathing_ , for Mahal not to take away his golden sun when he had already taken _so much_. Frerin remembers, and wishes he didn’t.

    There are many things that are better left unquestioned of battles both won and lost. The rise of new kings and impossible victories and the survival of Erebors golden prince are better left to be praised and celebrated instead of being questioned lest Mahal believes his blessings unwelcome and unneeded. Thorin remembers better than most the hollowness left in the wake of such a bitter victory, the tears shed and grief shared as fallen friends and family were placed upon the pyres. He remembers the rush of adrenaline and fear as Thrors head was raised above the battlefield as a trophy by the Defiler, and the roar that ripped through his throat as he charged toward his grandfather’s murderer. He remembers the confused look on Frerins face as he tried to stop the blood rushing out of a wound he failed to prevent, and his plea’s to just _keep breathing_ , for Mahal not to take away his golden sun when he had already taken _so much._ Thorin remembers, and wishes he didn’t.

    There is a cost to every victory and a life lost to every life gained. There are memories better left buried and lessons better left unlearned. There are consequences to every fate altered by such desperate means, and truths that are better left in the shadows they were crafted in. There is a battle lost for every mistake made and a battle won for every apology given. Frerin knows this, and wishes he doesn’t.

    There is a prize to every victory and a life gained to every life lost. There are memories better left glorified and lessons better left ignored. There are miracles in every fate altered by such desperate means, and truths that are better left twisted by the tongue coated in silver. There is a battle lost for every injustice and a battle won for every avenged slight. Thorin knows this, and wishes he doesn’t.

    The sun gives light to a world cast in shadows while the moon gives shadows to a world overwhelmed with light. The sun warms those left in a world too cold and unforgiving while the moon cools those left in a world too warm and bright. The sun signifies life and light and protection from the creatures of the dark that hide in the shadows. The moon signifies death and darkness and the shadows that the creatures of the dark hide in. The brothers know this, and wished they didn’t.


	2. Chapter 1

                 Frerin considers whether or not he should call for Oin as he stares at his brother dumbly, mug of ale hanging forgotten just below his mouth. He hopes Thorin realizes just how lucky he is that he hadn’t actually taken a sip of it yet. He’s not too certain his beloved brother would appreciate the liquor making friends with his face.

                Said brother merely looks at him expectantly, eyebrow raised as he awaits an answer impatiently as if _anything_ he just said wasn’t absolutely insane and was just a typical request one would make to a younger brother.

                “Erebor?” he starts out slowly, and tries to ignore eyes that narrow at the disbelieving sound of his voice. “You wish to go back to _Erebor_?” Silence answers him. “The same Erebor that is currently housing a fire breathing _dragon_ , that Erebor, that’s the one we’re talking about now right?” This time he gets a glare to go along with the silence. Frerin thinks he’s finally gone mad. He believes that opinion should be known.

                “Should I go get Oin?”

                “Frerin.”

                “Are you having a mid-life crises? Is that what’s going on right now?”

                “Frerin, for the love of Mahal,”

                “Nadad, its nothing to be ashamed of. Plenty of older dwarfs go through it. If they got through it we can too. Do you hear that Thorin? _We are going to get through this_.”

                “I swear, Frerin-“

                “Dis warned me it would be coming soon, and I am so sorry I didn’t take the warning to heart, but I promise you Thorin _you will not get through this alone. I am here with you nad-”_

“Frerin!”

                At the sound of his name being said in what he had (rightfully might he add) dubbed as the voice of righteous _doom_ , the younger dwarf froze from where he had reached across the table to grip his brother’s arms tightly, pulling back slowly to reclaim his seat. A few other dwarfs heads had turned their way at the sound of their king’s outburst, and Frerin gave them a charming smile that he supposed was seen as reassuring as not a second later they had returned to their own conversations, leaving him to face Thorins infamous temper alone. The moment he turned back to face his older brother he wishes he hadn’t. Thorins face was thunderous at best and in moments like this even Frerin knew better than to further irate him lest he wished to risk igniting the entire storm.

                “Are you about done nadadith?”

                Frerin merely nodded.

                “Good, now as I was saying, it is about time that we reclaim our rightful homeland,”

                “That Smaug currently lives in.” He couldn’t help but cut in.

                “ _which_ I am well aware houses a dragon,”

                “A very _big_ dragon.”

                “and take our rightful place as heirs to the Line of Durin.”

                Frerin stares at his brother with wide eyes and tries to take in the completely relaxed expression on his brother’s face as anything other than the sign of madness it is. He reconsiders his original plan of calling Oin. He’ll call for Dwalin first. Oin can meet them in the healing ward later.

                “Well?”

                Oh he was supposed to dignify that with an answer. His mistake. “Umm…” he falters slightly. “You sure you don’t want me to fetch Oin?”

                Thorins blank look shows he’s anything but impressed. “Really?”

                “Well how do you expect me to act when you go and say something like that?” he exclaims suddenly. “Here I was, drinking a perfectly brewed ale and having what I believed was a perfectly _healthy_ and _normal_ outing with my beloved older brother, when he decides to just suddenly suggest, ‘Hey brother O’ mine, what do you say about trekking halfway across Middle Earth on some hopeless quest to reclaim our homeland and all its riches from a bloody _dragon_ who decided to make it his home?’ You know what Thorin? Normal people don’t say things like that! Normal and perfectly _sane_ people suggest the complete opposite! ”

                Thorin merely rolls his eyes, as if it’s _Frerin_ who is being unreasonable, and really he should have known something like this would happen. Thorin doesn’t frequent pubs, because he is the very definition of an emotionally constipated loner who would rather choke on his own tongue than express feelings normally and not through stupid acts of bravery. Yes he considers Azanulbizar as a stupid act of rage induced bravery, but he thinks he is perfectly justified in doing so because _really_. Going up against Azog with naught but a sword and piece of oak? _Really._ He doesn’t care what others might say, between Thorin and Dis, he is perfectly _sane_ thank you very much.

                “It’s not as if I suggested you just throw yourself from the top of the Blue Mountains to your certain death.”

                “Except you basically _did_.”

                “Nadadith, please.”

                “Wasn’t nearly dying once good enough for you?” At the silence that answers him, a crooked smile makes its way across Frerins face as he sees Thorin stiffen in front of him. “I don’t know about you, but bleeding out at your feet wasn’t exactly the highlight of my life”

                “Do not joke about that day, you know very well-”

                “Why not?” He cuts in, face somber as he levels a look at his older brother. “Someone has to.”

                Thorin sighs as he rubs a hand across his brow, and for the first time in years Frerin sees how aged he has become. Gray hairs he used to joke about suddenly become more prominent amongst raven hair, gray hairs that he himself had yet to receive and wasn’t that just ironic? A few meager years are what separate them, yet Frerin is as golden and bright as he was in Erebor while his brother wore every year of hardship on his skin for the world to see.

                “I suppose you’re right.” Thorin quietly admits. “Though I’d still rather keep the memory of your blood on my hands buried if it’s all the same to you.”

                He leaves only when Frerin gives a short nod.

 

 

* * *

 

 

                Weeks go by and Frerin forgets all about that conversation at the tavern. He trains with his nephews the few hours a day he’s not busy working in the forge, with the occasional visit to the pub with Dwalin for a drinking contest if he feels he hasn’t done something completely reckless in a while.

                Thorin is absent more often than not from the house they share, and when he asks Dis the only answer she has for him is the most unimpressed look (which he doesn’t understand why he’s the one receiving it because _he has done nothing wrong_ ) and the offhand comment about how a pig has more sense than him on the best of days.

                When he comes home a week later and finds Thorin sharpening the axe he himself had gifted him years before in front of the fireplace he knows he should be worried. He considers the repercussions in hiding out at the sons of Fudins’ home, but the more he thinks about it the more he remembers the way Balin had acted when he had made an unexpected appearance in his workshop earlier that day. He realizes that Balin knew about whatever Thorin had been up to, and tries to ignore the hurt at the idea that his brother couldn’t share something with him.

                Steeling himself for what he knew was a conversation that would either end in blood, a barrel of ale or both, Frerin set down the bag of tools he had brought back from work and gingerly sat in front of his brother.

                Thorin didn’t look up from at the sound of his brother, and the only sign that he had even heard him was the barest of nods given in his direction. Frerin didn’t say anything. As a child he had learned that silence was usually the best invitation for conversation, and that had never proven truer than with Thorin himself. So instead he busies himself with a dagger that lay forgotten on the floor. He wonders if he should worry that it only takes a few minutes of silence before his brother finally speaks up.

                “Do you remember when we were children,” he starts out quietly, eyes never leaving the axe in his lap, “and we would sneak into the throne room and sit upon the rafters listening to grandfather talk to visiting dignitaries?” A small smile makes its way onto Thorins face. “We would stay up there for hours. Bored out of our thick skulls but keeping each other entertained with stolen cookies and apples.”

                Frerin huffs out a laugh at the memory, relaxing enough to set down the dagger and drape himself over the couch. “Of course I do.” He teases. “I also remember having to bribe you to even go up in the rafters to begin with.” They had always been forbidden to be in the throne room when a foreign advisor or noble visited the mountain, back when the most important thing to Thor was his family’s safety and not a shiny little rock. That never stopped them from sneaking past their guards and eavesdropping on whatever important discussion demanded the princes to be held so secure.

                “Nothing compared to what I had to bribe Dis with to keep her mouth shut when we left her behind.” Which, yeah, he had a point. “She was never happy with being stuck in our rooms while we went and had our fun.”

                “No she didn’t”

                They fall into a comfortable silence, and Frerin _missed this_. Missed the pointless conversations he used to have with his older brother, meaningless topics that they were lucky if they even remembered the next day. Before the battle, before Smaug. Before the Arkenstone. Frerin is not blind. He knows the beauty of the stone, the pull of its light and the temptation of its power. Yet Frerin also knows the sickness greed that beauty evokes. He has seen the destruction his family’s curse has wrought upon their people, seen how greatly the consequences outweigh the benefits, and he can think of no jewel bright enough to be worth that.

                “I never wanted this life for you nadad.” Thorins voice interrupts Frerins thoughts, and when he looks to where his brother sat he is shocked to see that at some point Thorin had taken up his place at his side on their couch. He watches as blue eyes focus everywhere but his face, and stays silent because he knows if he speaks now Thorin will shut him out and this moment will be forgotten by morning.

                If Thorin notices Frerins hesitation he doesn’t show it, too lost in thoughts filled with fire and fear and anger, and soon continues as if his brother’s silence was expected. “This life of poverty, of struggle and mockery, it is not befitting of a prince of Erebor.”

                “We seem to be doing good so far.” Frerin answers warily, not sure where this is coming from or where this is going.

                “Even so, this life is not one I would have chosen for my family. You should have had the opportunity to grow into the prince you were meant to be, draped in silks and velvet and sapphires like a true heir of Durin, not rags and soot and valueless crystals.”              

                 Frerin wants to cut in that he never needed those things, that he still doesn’t and that more importantly that he’s _happy_ because they are all still alive and healthy, but Thorins not done, and to try and argue now would end badly for both him and their furniture.                 “Dís should never have had to raise one child in such hardship, let alone two. Fíli and Kíli should have been raised in the halls of their people, to have laughed and played in the throne room as we had done, not to assist in the hunting and work to just scrape by.” Thorin stands suddenly, and Frerin has to bite his tongue to keep himself form reminding that their nephews would never have been born if not for this life in the Blue Mountains. He paces in front of him, and the younger dwarf can only watch in silence as his strong and proud brother sinks underneath the doubts and fears that have haunted him since the dragon, and the expectations he has placed upon himself to right their grandfather’s wrongs.

                 “Our people have been brought down to a life of difficulty and impoverishment. A once proud people brought down to their very knees by our grandfather’s greed and madness! “

                  Thorin is turned away from Frerin, facing the fire though the younger dwarf highly doubts he is really seeing it. “Do you see now why we must take back Erebor? Why we must reclaim our home?”

                Frerins blood turns to ice as he remembers the conversation back in the tavern, and he stands suddenly to grab ahold of his elders shoulder. “Is that what this is about?” he asks quietly, and at the silence that answers him he closes his eyes and prays to Mahal for this conversation to not end in bloodshed. “Thorin… Nadadel, we don’t need to do _anything_. We are alive and for the most part we are safe.”

                At this Thorin turns to him as if to argue that, but Frerin doesn’t give him the chance. “You have made a good life for us in the Blue Mountains, far better than anyone expected. We do not starve in the winter and we do not beg in the streets of men, and that is because of _you_. Erebor hold nothing but gold and a dragon, neither worth going after if it kills us in the end.”

                “It is if that gold will secure our peoples place in the world.” Thorins eyes are clouded over, and for a mere second it is not his brother that is standing before him. His grandfather’s eyes haunt memories of gems and fire, and their mothers plea’s to take his sister and run. He remembers, no matter how hard he tries to forget.

                “What is gold to the dead?”

                 Thorin flinches back, and his eyes clear from their daze. Frerin walks back out the door before he can respond.

 

* * *

 

                 Frerin is on the rooftop of his forge when Thorin finally finds him. He looks back to normal, if not a little more broody than normal. He takes comfort in the clear eyes that meet his, instead of the clouded ones of a stranger.

                “Nothing.”

                Thorins voice rumbles loudly in the night, and it takes a moment for Frerin to catch on to what he’s saying.

                “Nothing.” He repeats. “Gold is nothing to the dead.”

                He leans back against the tiles of the roof, tiles he had placed himself and looks expectantly at Frerin for some kind of response.

                A smile lights the golden princes face up, and he can’t help but tug playfully at one of Thorins braids. “After all these years, _now_ you listen to me?”

                He dodges the punch thrown his way with a laugh.

 

 

* * *

 

 

               A month passes from that night when Thorin gets word of their father being sighted amongst the ruins of Dol Guldur. Frerin watches as his brother packs enough supplies to last a few months, and leaves within the week with the only instruction being that both he and Dis will lead in his stead.

              Thorin doesn’t come back with their father. He comes back with a map.

**Author's Note:**

> Short little prologue just to get into the feel of the story. Be warned that the first few chapters after this will be setting up Frerin and his relationship to Thorin and his family. Actual quest wont start for a bit so sorry for that!


End file.
